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The steeple bells toll.In three hours I must be on a bus.I do not want to leaveand I do not want to doall the things I still need to do:clean, pack, say good bye. . .

and have I left off “cry”?a perfectly honest rhymefor which I am not feeling time –or, more precisely, not feeling.

And isn’t that what departures arefor me: A history of not feelingfrom father to lover to sons?

II

“On the road again” — us mennot feeling the grief that surgesand recycles itself again and again.

And where does it go, blocked like that?What great shoebox full of bubblegum cardsdoes each departure get filed in, traded for –What cost these rituals of manhood,This loneliness of love without tears?

III

How silence imprisons us.How we fear that if we beginto weep it will not stop.